


An Unexpected Gift

by sanguisuga



Series: Aberrant Fragments [5]
Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Although completely consensual, Although no contact, Birthday, Birthday Sex, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Incest, Light Angst, M/M, Other, Plotting, Pre-Relationship, Scheming, Threesome, because Myc is a perv, just watching, maybe..., maybe? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 11:16:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4099023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguisuga/pseuds/sanguisuga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft wishes to bestow a very special gift to Gregory for his birthday. Some memories of the past persuade Sherlock to agree to participate...</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unexpected Gift

**Author's Note:**

> For the Sherlock Rarepair Bingo - prompt was 'birthday', and my 'thirding' is Mycroft/Sherlock/Lestrade. (Because Lestrade is in everything, okay? I just neeeed more Lestrade...) ;-p
> 
> Not beta'd or brit-picked, most likely a one-off although there is great potential here. *Nghk*
> 
> Please comment, I do love to hear from my lovelies.

Sherlock sighed heavily as he leant over Mycroft’s desk, meeting his brother’s cool gaze with a hard stare. “What is it this time, Fatcroft? I was in the middle of a very crucial experiment when your goons came to abduct me. It’s no doubt ruined by now.”

“And I’m sure that Mrs. Hudson will be extremely grateful to me for that.” Mycroft sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers at his chest. “I should like your assistance with a new project of mine. It concerns a subject that you have long had an interest in, one that you have been reluctant to engage with because you were uncertain of the outcome. In truth, this is something that intrigues me as well, and I believe if we were to act together, we would certainly succeed admirably in our goal.”

“What on earth are you blithering about, Mycroft? What subject could possibly interest the both of us in any way? I am a detective, a scientist. You are little more than a bureaucratic gasbag. We have nothing in common.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow as he inclined his head slightly. “Perhaps.” He cleared his throat and took in a calming breath. “Detective Inspector Lestrade’s birthday is next week, is it not?”

Sherlock frowned and shrugged wildly. “Lestrade? Maybe - I don’t know! That isn’t the sort of thing that I keep track of, you colossal pain in the arse. And what does he have to do with anything?”

“Oh dear. Despite all of your posturing, you can be extremely dense at times, brother mine. He has everything to do with it. He is the project to which I am referring.” He sighed again as his infuriating little brother gave him a bewildered look. “How many times has that poor beleaguered man saved your life, Sherlock? What have you ever given him in return?”

Sherlock scoffed dismissively. “Oh, only solving all of his cases, that’s all. He and his team are all idiots.”

Mycroft levelled a truly deadly glare at him, and Sherlock was surprised to find himself taking a step back from his desk. “You know that isn’t true, brother dearest. Half the time you reject the cases he offers you because they aren’t exciting enough, and yet they still manage to muddle through and solve them somehow, don’t they? You know as well as I that the only reason he offers anything to you at all is to keep your brain distracted from less - ah, shall we say...fruitful pursuits.”

Sherlock sighed quietly and sank down onto one of the chairs facing his brother’s desk. “So? I still don’t understand what this project is that you’re scheming about.”

“He is a good man, Sherlock, and he deserves a little recognition for that. Like I said, his birthday is coming up and I think it’s well past time that you and I showed him some gratitude for all that he has done for you, and consequently, for me.”

“So get him a tie or something. I’ll sign the card. Are we done now?”

“Christ, but you are insufferable.” Sherlock smirked as Mycroft sighed deeply. “No, he deserves something a little more personal, don’t you think?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he looked his brother over carefully, at the faint roses blooming high on his cheeks, his increased respiration and dilated pupils. “Spell it out for me, Mycroft. Be very explicit.”

Mycroft almost giggled out of pure mortification. “Do you remember a particular summer at the manor, brother mine? A particular groundskeeper, perhaps?”

Sherlock sat back with a harsh expulsion of breath, his own cheeks suddenly burning abominably. _“Paolo.”_

Mycroft hummed almost inaudibly, watching with an almost unholy level of glee as his brother’s eyes went distant, no doubt replaying the events in question. It was difficult to say exactly how old Paolo had been at the time, as he had spent so much of his adult life working out in the sun, leaving him tanned, yes, but also with extra wrinkles around his gentle brown eyes. Much like Lestrade, Paolo’s hair had gone grey prematurely, seemingly at odds with his bright, youthful smile. By his best estimate, Mycroft believed him to have been in his late thirties or early forties at the time.

He had been groundskeeper at the manor for a couple of years before the main incident occurred, one of the very few that could tolerate Sherlock at all. He had always seemed to view him with remarkable tolerance, considering all the plants that he would dig up or ‘controlled’ fires that he would set that somehow always seemed to escape their confinement. He would chuckle and make some offhand comment in his heavily accented English to the effect of ‘boys will be boys’, which had always made Mycroft roll his eyes in exasperation.

But still, he was extremely competent in his job, and since he hadn’t tried to strangle his younger brother as his predecessor had, Paolo was looked on in the household with favour. And then there was the summer after he had graduated university. Aged twenty-three, with his life already neatly planned out for him, Mycroft had been looking forward to having a couple of months mostly to himself before being sequestered away in some pointless governmental position. He wouldn’t have chosen to spend it at home, but Mummy had insisted, and after all, it wasn’t like he was required to spend all of his time in his family’s presence.

On this particular evening, he had been sent out of doors to fetch his recalcitrant brother for supper, since their mother seemed to think that keeping him fed was apparently one of his sacred sibling duties. Sherlock was usually to be found loitering about the stables, since that was where the gardener’s shed was as well. The little bastard was always looking for opportunities to duck in and steal the rat poison, for whatever nefarious purposes his twisted little mind could conceive of.

Mycroft had wandered around the structure aimlessly until he heard an odd sound coming from within, a sort of sharp cry. Frowning to himself, he had slipped in and stopped dead in the doorway, his mouth dropping open in surprise. Paolo was sitting on a hay bale with Sherlock draped over his lap, and he was spanking him quite thoroughly. Mycroft could see from his brother’s face that he was deeply ashamed, even before he had caught sight of him standing there. Ashamed, yes, but also extremely excited.

Clearing his throat caught both of their attentions, and Sherlock scrambled to his feet and turned away in embarrassment as Paolo broke out into a babbling explanation, slipping from English to Spanish and back again. Mycroft tilted his head and listened intently, easily picking up on everything that he said. It seemed that he had caught his little brother with one of the rabbits that occasionally roamed the grounds, and that he had been about to do something quite hideous with it. Well, ‘boys will be boys’ be damned when it came to pointless cruelty to animals, apparently.

Mycroft had nodded thoughtfully as he turned a heartless glare on his brother, who was still attempting to hide his obvious arousal. He didn’t look repentant in the least, of course. Mycroft smiled now to remember the look in his eye, knowing that Sherlock had no doubt caught that poor bunny for just that purpose, with the intent of making it look like he was going to do something awful just so Paolo would attempt to teach him a lesson. Well, if it was a lesson he wanted…

“Creo que puede que tenga que ser un poco más contundente, Paolo. Usted debe acabar con sus pantalones, le dan una paliza adecuada.”

Both Sherlock’s and Paolo’s eyes had widened almost comically, but Mycroft simply folded his arms over his chest and spread his stance in the doorway, making it clear that nobody was leaving until his orders had been fulfilled. Sherlock had shuffled back over to Paolo’s side, and the groundskeeper had reached out to tug at his belt and zip, yanking everything down and pulling him back across his knees. From there it had been a glorious hour and a half of them doing everything that he told them to, including ordering his sixteen year-old brother to suck Paolo off while calling him ‘Papá’.

The rest of the summer had followed a similar pattern, with Mycroft keeping a firm eye on Sherlock to make sure that he wasn’t sneaking off to find Paolo on his own. No, they always approached him together, either at the stables or in his room above the garage, which was thankfully separate from the main house. Mycroft was clearly the one in charge of every episode, always telling them exactly what to do as he watched, taking detailed notes in his head. He would replay the images later in the dark of his own bedroom, bringing himself off to a mind-shattering orgasm at least two, sometimes three, times before falling off into a dead sleep.

God, he had never slept so well in his entire life… But of course Paolo’s usual work faltered as he was put to his new purpose, and it was inevitable that Mummy would notice. So by the end of the summer, he had been replaced with someone far younger and far less interesting to either of the brothers. No, Paolo had been the only one that they had played with to such an extent.

Mycroft smirked knowingly as Sherlock’s eyes focused on his once again, his cheeks renewing their rosy blush. He cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly as he tucked his absurd coat around his body. “I see.”

“You understand the scope of the project now?”

“Indeed.” Sherlock sniffed haughtily even as his eyes took on a cunning glow. “And will you be participating beyond directing and watching?”

Mycroft hesitated as Lestrade’s face came into focus in his mind’s eye. “Perhaps. He may be less inclined to simply follow my orders, brother dearest. After all, Paolo was more or less in my employ. He may have felt that he didn’t have a choice in the matter.”

“Lestrade is no man’s toady, least of all yours.”

“Exactly.” Mycroft practically purred as he leant back in his seat, caressing the arms of his chair. “We will present him with an opportunity, and then let him take the lead if he so chooses.”

Sherlock sighed as he stood, carefully keeping his coat shrouding his form. “Fine. Make your preparations, then. I would suggest having a bauble or something ready as a second choice if he decides not to take you up on the oh-so-generous offer of your little brother’s arse.”

“Oh dear. Sherlock, you really must have more faith in yourself.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes with the lovely little addition of a two-fingered salute on his way out of his office. Mycroft shook his head with fond exasperation. Yes, he was a little bastard, but he was _his_ little bastard, and he loved him in spite of it all. He ran his tongue along his upper teeth and sucked gently as he contemplated. Perhaps…

                                                  *********                              *********                              **********                             *********

Greg Lestrade heaved out a monumental sigh as he began to climb the stairs to his flat. _Fifty_. Fifty _fucking_ years old. Jesus. Fifty years old, and what did he have to show for it? Okay, sure, he had a decent job that he actually liked, and a great team to go with, but that was about it. His crap flat he could mostly overlook - it wasn’t like he really spent the majority of his time there anyway. And he wasn’t - like - lonely or anything, right?

Nah, he had mates, even if most of them were just the folks on his team. Still, they had taken him out tonight even though they hadn't had to. Gregson had even brought in some kind of travesty of a cake that he had baked the night before. Even though it was truly awful and the rest of the gang had teased Gregson about it mercilessly, Greg had made sure to pull him aside at some point to let him know how much he appreciated the effort. And he did - he really did. Yeah - it was the thought that counted and all that rot.

He sighed again as he reached the second landing, looking up the next set of stairs to where the door to his empty flat was waiting. Greg gave a brief thought to pulling out the extremely short list of people that he could usually count on for a quick shag, but shook it off in the next moment. Easier just to pull up some porn online and lay in a bit of hand lotion, wasn’t it? He’d only had two pints, but it had been a long day and he was tired…

Shit. Fifty. Fifty fucking _years_ old, and actually looking forward to a sad wank before toddling off to bed like some bloody senior citizen. What the hell had his world come to? He started to heave out yet another dramatic sigh, but stopped himself before he could. Keep on that way, you’ll start to hyperventilate, old man. Just - just get inside and get to bed and you can forget all about another bloody birthday until next year. Three hundred sixty-four days to go and counting… Fuck.

He didn’t immediately flip on a light when he walked in, familiar enough with the layout of his flat to hang up his mack and jacket and slip off his shoes. He started to tug his tie loose as he tossed his bundle of keys onto the small table next to the door, but then he paused. It was dark, yeah, but he could swear that there was a silhouette where there shouldn’t be…

Greg practically jumped out of his skin as a smooth voice spoke to him from the dark. “Good evening, Gregory.”

He flipped on the light and glowered as Mycroft Holmes blinked at him placidly from his perch on one end of his crappy sofa. “Fucking hell! Really, Mycroft? _Really?_ You know, I’m beginning to suspect that you watched far too much Bond as a child. I’m starting to expect you to show up with a naked pussy under your arm or something equally as vile.”

Greg narrowed his eyes suspiciously as Mycroft broke out into what sounded like genuine laughter. “You know, Detective Inspector, you really can be quite amusing at times. And charming, of course.”

“The fuck you on about?”

Mycroft tutted quietly as he stood, dusting down his trousers. “And crude, but that’s to be expected, I suppose.”

“Yeah, that’s to be expected from someone whose flat was just broken into for fuck only knows what reason. Honestly, I’m in no mood. If you need someone to chase down your mad brother, I would highly suggest that you bugger off and find yourself a different lackey. I’ve had a couple of pints, I’m knackered and very much looking forward to bed. I’m officially an old man now, and I’m telling you to get off my fucking lawn, okay?”

Mycroft tilted his head with another frankly frightening although seemingly genuine smile. “Old? Oh, Gregory… Fifty is hardly old, and you are in remarkable shape either way. You do yourself a great disservice. However, I do not wish to stay where I am not welcome. I simply wished to ensure that your birthday present was delivered satisfactorily.”

“Present? I do hate to upset your delicate sensibilities, Mycroft, but once again - the _fuck_ you on about?”

Greg blinked as Mycroft cleared his throat rather loudly. The hallway off to his left was suddenly flooded with light, and then there was a shadow stepping out from his bedroom. He stopped stock-still as his brain tried to grasp what it was seeing. Not quite believing it, he again looked to Mycroft, who gestured expansively before folding his hands in front of him.

Sherlock fucking Holmes, clad in nothing but a big red bow, took another step closer and licked his lips as he looked him up and down. Greg felt his entire body flush with blood and need at the look in his eyes, something dark and dangerous, lustful and wanton all at once. He hadn’t been looked at like that for a very, very long time, and it was doing all kinds of wonderful things to his insides. And his outsides too, quite frankly. He held his breath as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, knowing instinctively that he was going to want a very clear memory of whatever words he might utter for a long time to come. And oh, he was not disappointed. Not at all.

“Happy Birthday… Daddy.”

His voice was lovely on its own, of course, a smooth posh baritone, but this - oh this was innocent and wicked and needy all at once and oh. Oh Christ, that voice went straight to his cock and he knew that he hadn't a chance. No, not one single chance. Sherlock smirked as Greg reached up to undo a couple of his buttons before simply pulling his shirt out of his trousers and up over his head. He took a couple of steps as his utterly unexpected but oh-so-lovely birthday gift turned around and minced back into his bedroom, the ends of that ridiculous bow bouncing over a truly glorious arse. He stopped and turned his head and caught sight of Mycroft standing alone in the middle of his sitting room. His face was somehow smug and resigned all at once, and Greg realised that he thought his intention was to leave him there. But no - whatever this was, whether it was just for the night or perhaps even the beginning of something new and delightfully filthy, he knew that he had to take full advantage. It was his _birthday_ , after all. And oh yes, happy fucking birthday to me indeedy...

He grinned at the elder Holmes as he started to work his belt loose. “You coming?” He winked at his pleased expression and then headed toward nirvana, shedding clothing with every step he took. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Brief translation from the Spanish -
> 
> "I think you may need to be a bit more forceful, Paolo. You should take down his trousers, give him a proper thrashing."
> 
> (This was gained via Google Translate, so if it is goofy and there are native speakers out there, please do let me know and I will fix it. Gracias!)


End file.
